“I have your file, Inspector Rostnikov,” said the colonel, stepping back to assess the job he had done in lining up the poster.
“Of course,” answered Rostnikov, realizing that any answer was treading dangerous ground.
“For many reasons, you are lucky to have the job and responsibility which you have,” said the colonel, turning once more to face the policeman.
“True of all of us who are fortunate enough to serve the state,” said Rostnikov folding his hands on his coat. The colonel’s remark could have meant many things from the black market weights to the fact that Rostnikov’s wife was Jewish, but the point was clear again.
“Then we understand each other,” Drozhkin repeated.
“Fully,” answered Rostnikov, wondering how long this would continue, whether the colonel would simply keep him here for days going in verbal circles. It was probably a habit of me old man’s, a habit of interrogation which he could not break.
Drozhkin moved swiftly and silently across the brown carpet to his desk and picked up the phone.
“Zhenya, get Khrapenko, send him to the interrogation room on one. Tell him he is to be interviewed by a police inspector and is to tell him everything he wants to know about last night. Yes, now.” He replaced the black phone firmly and looked at Rostnikov.
“You are to confine your questions to last night and deal only with the particulars of your investigation,” said the colonel.
It struck Rostnikov for the first time that the colonel himself must have someone above him to whom he would have to report, and the situation was perhaps as dangerous for the old man as it was for the police officer.
“Of course,” said Rostnikov amiably. “In fact, I would like, if possible, to have the…”
“Interview,” Drozhkin completed.
“Yes,” Rostnikov went on, “the interview. I would like it recorded so that you can hear it.”
“It will be,” said the colonel, sitting behind the desk and examining the policeman once again. “You knew it would be. Don’t play the fool.”
Rostnikov shrugged.
“Have you ever been to Kiev?” the colonel asked suddenly, and Rostnikov was bewildered for the first time since entering the room. He tried to protect himself from whatever it was that was coming.
“My son is…”
“1 know, I know that,” said the colonel with irritation, “I am not asking a political question.”
“Once,” said Rostnikov, shifting uncomfortably, “I had to deliver a prisoner years ago.”
“Did you see the interior of the Cathedral of St. Sofiya?”
“No, I did not.”
“Decadent, yes,” sighed the colonel, “but beautiful. The chandeliers, the recreation of the byzantine. It is without meaning, the epitome of what could be accomplished by medieval princes, a reminder of the temptation of the impractical, a reminder that we must remain strong. I have gone to that church many times to feel the temptation to fight it, to emerge strong again. Do you have such a place, comrade inspector?”
Rostnikov shrugged. “In my head, perhaps, like most Russians.”
Drozhkin moved from behind the desk and motioned for Rostnikov to rise. He placed a hand on the policeman’s shoulder and guided him toward the door.
“Return to that place now, inspector, and draw strength from it. Meet the challenge, or those with stronger wills will have to take your place.”
“Of course,” sighed Rostnikov, “that is the strength of socialism. If one falls, you or I, there is someone right behind to take up the task.”
A knock at the door interrupted the conversation, and the man who had led Rostnikov to the room stepped in.
“Zhenya, take Inspector Rostnikov to the interrogation room. He is to be given fifteen minutes to talk to Khrapenko. Understood?”
“Yes,” replied Zhenya.
“And you, inspector,” the old man said in his heavy accent, “are to take no notes and make no reference to this interview in any trial that might take place without my direct permission.”
“And in your absence?” Rostnikov asked innocently.
“To whomever occupies this office. You walk dangerously, comrade,” Drozhkin said between clenched teeth.
“I don’t mean to,” said Rostnikov. “I simply wish to get my job done.”
“As do we all.” Drozhkin moved back to his desk, and Zhenya stepped into the hall with Rostnikov behind him. Rostnikov reached back to close the door, but the voice of the old man inside stopped him.
“Now that we are friends,” Drozhkin said with a touch of irony that sent a chill through Rostnikov, “I think I can give you some confidential news. Your son’s brigade has been sent to Afghanistan. That is confidential information. I thought you would be proud and happy to know.”
“Yes, I am, and I thank you for your thoughts and consideration, comrade,” Rostnikov managed to get out as he closed the door behind him.
As he limped after the rapidly moving Zhenya, the news struck him like blows from steel weight bars. Iosef was in a place where Russian soldiers were being killed. Visions of his own war, of death, of Rostov, sliced through Rostnikov, and fear for his son brought burning moisture to his armpits. But he also thought, at one level of consciousness, that Colonel Drozhkin had seemed overly concerned, responsible, and emotional; that he had invested a great deal in this case of Aleksander Granovsky. The colonel had said too much. True, he had provoked Rostnikov to intemperate statement, but he, himself, had been as guilty. Age, responsibility, concern over possible blame for Granovsky’s death or at least of negligence might account for it, but a K.G.B. man of Drozhkin’s age should surely have learned to control himself, to weather many crises.
Zhenya stopped before a door and Rostnikov hurried to catch up.
“Fifteen minutes,” Zhenya said.
“Fifteen minutes,” Rostnikov agreed.
The room was small and bare. Khrapenko, young and nervous-looking, was pacing the floor. He stopped as Rostnikov entered, tried to pull himself together and, before the policeman could speak, said, “I am Khrapenko.”
And, thought a puzzled Rostnikov, you look very close to being a fool, which means there will be two of them in this room for fifteen minutes.
CHAPTER FIVE
Though there are rules and regulations, restrictions and requirements, it is no easier in Moscow to find a killer or a saint than it is in New York, Tokyo, or Rome. If the world does not know this, the police do, and so they learn to value patience and good shoes.
Sasha Tkach had begun his day and was putting his patience to practice.
He was sitting in a small, surprisingly warm room drinking a cup of tea. He had lost the opportunity to remove his coat, and he had lost the initiative in the conversation when the man to whom he was speaking, Simon Lvov, had greeted him warmly, invited him in and offered him tea. Lvov was a tall man of seventy-five who stooped over slightly and smoked a pipe. His dark grey hair was unkempt, and perched on his huge nose were the glasses all too familiar to Russians, the standard dark, round frames like those of the American comedian Harold Lloyd. Tkach had been prepared for hostility, trickery, deception, but not for this warm man in a dark cardigan sweater who ushered him in and made him sit in a soft, ancient chair.
“You are a young man,” Lvov said, simply, in reply to Tkach’s first question about Granovsky. It was clear that, from some source, Lvov had heard about Granovsky’s death. It was also clear that he was not in a state of deep mourning. According to the information Tkach had, this Lvov had been a scientist-an agronomist or something; he was one of Moscow’s leading dissidents and had worked closely with the murdered Granovsky. Yet for a scientist he was maddeningly indirect.